


Sober

by elzed



Category: The OC
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-27
Updated: 2012-04-27
Packaged: 2017-11-04 10:35:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/392900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elzed/pseuds/elzed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/392890/chapters/645273">Altered States</a> (<i>Stoned </i>and <i>Drunk</i>). Set later, during and after the season 4 opener.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sober

Many thanks to the peerless [](http://overnighter.livejournal.com/profile)[**overnighter**](http://overnighter.livejournal.com/) for betaing this fic into shape and de-Britifying it...

_Part 1: Numb_

Coming back to Newport is the hardest thing Taylor has ever done. There is no way Veronica Townsend wouldn’t view her return as anything but a total failure, and after eighteen years of criticism, she had no reason to be kind to Taylor now. But after the fiasco that was Paris – and the close shave with Henri-Michel, whose proposal was totally insane and caught her completely off-guard – Taylor had to escape. Or else, she would have ended up… God knows, married and pregnant by Christmas, and living someone else's life. 

Her mother's coldness still hurts. More than the biting words with which she greeted Taylor's arrival two weeks ago; or the dismissive wave of the hand when Taylor says she's looking at Stanford; it's how she manages to ignore her only daughter day to day, despite going through all the rituals of shared living. They have breakfast in the same room most mornings, but all that entails is that Taylor gets to read the headlines of the _Orange County Register_ across the table. Of course, noticed isn't generally much better, since it will mean a tongue-lashing about how unsuitable _that dress_ is or downright unattractive she looks with her hair _that way_.

Sometimes, she thinks life with a French husband she didn't love couldn't possibly have been worse than this.

Ryan's disappearance hasn't helped things, either. He's the one person she was really looking forward to seeing – Seth is fine for a chat, now and then, but he's too wrapped up in his long-distance relationship with Summer, and it's not the same anyhow. Taylor's wanted to see Ryan ever since he missed Marissa’s funeral, and she was off to South Korea – and Paris – but now he's AWOL.

Or not quite. When she walks into the comic-book store just after lunchtime, hoping to coax Seth to Starbucks for a quick double skinny latte, she catches him on the phone.

"Come on, Mom's been asking you for weeks. You owe… you could make dinner, just this once. You know the Kirsten, she's just itching to pull out all the stops and cook for you. And these days, that’s not even a threat… Yeah. No, I promise. Okay, think about it. I'll call you back tonight – all right, tomorrow. Bye."

The minute Seth turns his phone off, his bright smile fades away – it amazes Taylor how many visual cues people give out on the phone, but then it's difficult to sound convincing if you're not making the right kind of face – and she knows without a doubt that he was talking to Ryan.

"So, where is he?" she asks, genuinely curious.

Seth gives a start.

"Hey – Taylor, didn't know you were here."

She waves at him impatiently. "No, really. I thought Ryan was completely off the reservation?"

"Well, he sort of is. Sometimes he’ll answer his phone, though, and I've seen him a couple times, but…" he trails off, looking desolate.

"But he's still in shock from the accident?"

"Well, yeah – but it's more than that. He's, like, in his shell. Out of touch with everybody. And he talks a lot less than he used to – which, as you know, means that’s probably the first conversation he’s had for weeks. Seriously, he's worse than when he first turned up in Newport… not that you knew him then, but…"

"I remember when he arrived in Harbor," she cuts in.

"You do?"

"Come on, Seth, everybody does. He was this tough guy from Chino, with a badass reputation – he'd gotten in fights with the water polo players before classes even started… Harbor had never seen anything like him! All the guys hated him the minute he appeared on the scene – well, except maybe a few of the geeks. And _all_ the girls thought he was hot. I mean, not that any of them had the guts to do anything about it, with Marissa already marking her territory, but oh my God! When he walked into a classroom there was all this staring… and… really Seth, how on earth do you think I could've failed to notice Ryan Atwood?"

She's spinning into one of her tirades, and just about manages to pull herself back from the brink while Seth blinks at her a couple of times, clearly bemused.

"Well, okay – I guess – I never thought about it in that way. Anyhow – now, he's like, ten times as badass as he was, and I just… can't reach him anymore. I keep expecting it to get better but it's not." There's an edge of despair in Seth's voice, enough to make Taylor stomach sink. This is worse than she thought.

"Would you… would you tell me where he is? Or is that a state secret?" She's trying to sound light, desperately hoping that Seth won't question why she wants to know. She's pretty sure Ryan never mentioned what happened between them to Seth. Not that it seems to matter now, but still…

"What – you think you might be able to break through the Atwood wall of withdrawal?" Seth sounds skeptical – but not negative, she notes.

"You have a better idea?"

"No, I guess not. Maybe you can, I don't know, shock him into some sort of reaction…"

"Shock and awe? Thanks, Seth, for casting me in the Donald Rumsfeld role," she snaps back, but the thought that she might get to see Ryan, finally, is making her feel far too happy to really care.

The address Seth gives her is towards Long Beach and comes with a warning not to go there alone after dark, which Taylor privately thinks is probably another case of Seth Cohen's natural talent for exaggeration.

Turns out for once in his life Seth may have understated the case, and as she parks her car next to the seedy bar, she begins to think that perhaps she's miscalculated. Still, it’s too late to turn back – Taylor Townsend is not a quitter. Except, perhaps, when dealing with demanding, intense Frenchmen with voodoo sexual powers – but that is another matter entirely. _Entirely_.

The flickering yellow light over the door is exceptionally uninviting, but she psychs herself into it – after all, it's hardly the first time she's had to give herself a pep talk before she enters a room. Inside, the air smells of cigarettes – so much for California's smoking regulations – and the crowd looks very male, very drunk, and a hell of a lot rougher than any of the places where she's ever attempted to get a drink. On the plus side, they probably don't scrutinize fake IDs very closely in here.

Taylor sashays her way though the crowd, very aware that there's about a half-dozen guys – none of them the kind she'd consider talking to, let alone sharing bodily fluids with – whose eyes are trained on her ass. She kind of wishes she hadn't chosen to wear a red minidress, but it does fit the place, in a way, and she'd be lying if she pretended not to know it made her look hot for her first meeting with Ryan in ages.

She elbows her way to the bar, squeezing herself between some fat dude with a huge beard who looks like he's walked off the set of an 80s ZZ Top video, shades and hat included; and a skanky-looking brunette who might actually be a transvestite, not that Taylor really wants to know. No sign of Ryan on the other side, just a skinny dark-haired bearded guy who checks her out swiftly but barely glances at the fake license she flashes at him.

"Coors Light, please," she says as authoritatively as she can.

The beer is nice enough and she decides to drink straight from the bottle after a quick look at the glass it comes with, which she can tell hasn't been properly cleaned in – well, ever, probably. She's trying to figure out whether the casual brushing of someone's hand on her ass is accidental or deliberate, and debating whether or not to ask the bartender about Ryan, when he walks out of a back room, a crate in his arms, and Taylor has to bite her tongue not to squeal out his name.

Instead, she decides to stare at him until he notices – something she's convinced actually works, even if it's difficult to prove. He looks different – a little thinner, a little buffer – and a lot meaner than he used to. There are bruises and cuts on his face, his hair's short, and he looks more guarded even than usual – shuttered. A couple of minutes later, he catches her eye and she sees the naked shock on his face. Evidently, she's the last person he expected to come and visit him here, in the Bar of Despair and No Return.

Ryan may be messed up and shellshocked, but he still has a modicum of manners, and he ambles up the bar towards her.

"Taylor."

"Ryan Atwood – how have you been?"

"What are you doing here?"

He's not exactly hostile, but there's no hint of welcome in his tone, either.

"Nice to see you, too, Ryan. In a nutshell, I dropped out of the Sorbonne and decided to return home to regroup and figure my life out. And then I heard you were working here and I just had to check it out. Nice place." She smiles, just a little, to see whether that'll break the ice, but it's not that simple, apparently.

Ryan stares back at her blankly – it's like he's not quite there. Or maybe he is, but the rest of the world doesn't register on his radar.

She picks up her bottle and takes a long draught of beer before placing it back carefully on the stained counter.

"I was talking to Seth earlier, and he mentioned that it would be nice to see you at Casa Cohen a little more often. So I was wondering – when do you get off tonight?"

Ryan shakes his head. He looks exhausted, all of a sudden. In a surprisingly vulnerable gesture, he brings his hands up to his face, grinding the heels of his hands into his eyes.

"I can't, Taylor. Not tonight."

"Oh, okay. So what about tomorrow? Or Sunday, maybe? They have to give you a day off sometime…"

He cuts her off.

"It's not going to happen, Taylor. So, please, just go home. This isn't the kind of place you should be hanging out."

"I'm not hanging out, Ryan. I came to see you. It's important."

He shakes his head, evading her gaze by focusing on the counter. Pulling a greasy rag from his back pocket, he starts scrubbing at an old stain, a futile exercise if she's ever seen one.

But Taylor is nothing if not persistent.

"Okay – I get it, not the Cohens, not right now. But Ryan, to be honest – and you know I pride myself on being honest – you look, well, you look like _merde_. And I'm not sure you've been leading a very sensible life since you dropped off the face of the earth. So when’s your next day off, and can I buy a burger and a shake? Or a beer, if you really insist?"

"Taylor," he growls, leaning across the counter into her face – and gosh, that's _hot_ , despite everything. "Which part of 'Not tonight. Go home' do you not understand?"

"Ryan, I know all about your avoidance tactics, okay? I've been on the receiving end before. And I get that things have changed, but that doesn't mean we should let you – I should let you – stew in your own misery. It's not what friends do. And seriously, you should see the Cohens; they're lost without you. Seth is a shadow of his former self." As she says that she realizes it's true – that the off feeling she got from Seth the last few times has little to do with Summer, and everything to do with Ryan. That he's afraid that this time, Ryan won't come back.

"I can't do this, Taylor," Ryan says, and he sounds weary and distant – no longer pissed off – and that's bad because it's like she missed her window of opportunity, and he's retreated out of reach again, back behind his wall of uncaring, unfeeling, numb-as-fuck-and-stay-out-of-my-face _Ryan-ness_.

So she leaves, with a smile and a kiss blown off the tip of her fingers, and a promise to herself that she'll be back to try again soon. Very soon.

***********************

Taylor is, absolutely, the last person Ryan expected to see in the fucked-up dive he calls home, or would if he bothered. Not least because she's supposed to be in Korea, or Paris, or somewhere, and even though she's dressed down she still sticks out like a sore thumb among the regulars here.

Of course, he'd be lying if he said she didn't look hot. Way hot. Hot enough that he's jolted out of his usual catatonic state and propelled, briefly, into a state of heightened emotion the likes of which he's been strenuously avoiding for the past few months.

It's a good thing she leaves when she does. He's forgotten what it's like to fight to control his emotions – normally they're so tamped down it's not an issue – and there are too many things threatening to come to the surface all at once. God knows what might have escaped if she had stuck around.

Maybe it's time for another fight. There's nothing like good, honest physical pain to put emotional angst in context.

Still – her ass looked pretty fine as she walked out that door.

Fine enough for Ryan to re-visit it later that night when he's lying on his creaking bed, too wired to sleep. Fine enough to regret that he didn't follow her outside and drag her into the alley by the dumpster for a quick, dirty fuck, her short red dress up around her waist, her cunt slick and willing. ‘Oh Christ, Taylor,’ he moans, his hand tightening around his cock. He strokes it faster, remembering how hot and wet she had felt around him last time, how she had whimpered when he plunged deep into her.

And her mouth, God, her mouth had worked him like a fucking pro, licking and sucking and swallowing him deeper and deeper – and the memory is so sharp, so hot, that suddenly he's coming into his fist, three or four long spurts which take his breath away.

Sleep comes easier, after, but he still dreams of blood blooming on Volchok's face as he pounds it with a series of punches; of Volchok's body bruised and broken on the floor when he relents; of the taste of vengeance in his mouth – bitter, metallic. That's all his dreams are about these days, that and the accident.

Two nights later, when Jake offers him a match, Ryan says yes.

***********************

It's late evening when Taylor arrives at the bar for round two of her mission to save Ryan from himself and repair the damaged Cohen family unit. And if she happens to heal a few of her own wounds with a little Chino loving, well, who could fault her? Maybe she’s being optimistic – but then she's never seen the point of not aiming high.

She figures she has a better chance of getting him to agree to something at the end of his shift, plus she took longer to get ready. This time, she wants to blend into the scene more (all while looking as alluring as possible, of course), so she actually went and bought a couple of props at the mall. Namely, skinny black jeans that hug her ass and a pair of red patent peep-toe heels that wouldn't look totally out of place on a porn set. Teamed with a tight cropped T-shirt showing a hint of lacy bra, she looks totally slutty but still sort of cute, she decides. Good thing her mom is in Cabo for the weekend, though.

A couple of guys check Taylor out when she walks into the bar, and she's pretty sure she hears a low wolf-whistle aimed at her, but this time she doesn't feel out of place, and she congratulates herself for having cracked the dress code. Unfortunately, it's all for nothing, because Ryan doesn't appear to be here. Ten minutes, one beer, and several drunken, lecherous assholes later, it's clear he's not just in the back getting a new keg – he's out. Dammit.

"Excuse me?" she calls to the girl behind the bar, who is, frankly, a skank. Taylor really hopes Ryan isn't hooking up with her in his spare time because, to channel Summer, _ew_. Then again, if he's working in this dump, and living in some dingy backroom, maybe his standards have slipped...

"Same again?"

"No. I was just wondering if Ryan is around?"

Does she sound too pathetic?

Evidently yes, because the girl looks at her pointedly and laughs.

"Don't sweat it, sweetie, it's a lost cause."

"I’m sorry?"

"I mean, if you've had your fun – don't expect any more from him, okay? You're already one of the lucky ones… Believe me."

She looks a little wistful, like she's not, and that at least is a small relief. Because the news that Ryan's been sleeping his way around the locals isn't exactly what Taylor would call welcome.

"Honestly? It's not like that. I'm a friend of his. I was supposed to drop by tonight but I got delayed – is he gone already?"

The girl looks undecided. Jesus, does Taylor really look like such a threat? Then she shrugs.

"Well, if you're a friend, you probably know about the… backroom thing, right?"

"Right," Taylor repeats, nodding.

The backroom thing? Her mind is racing, trying to figure out this new conundrum. What backroom thing? Is this about sex? No – this makes no sense. Drugs? She can't imagine Ryan dealing drugs. But the Ryan she saw a couple of days ago wasn't quite the Ryan she used to know…

"Well, he's having, you know, a fight tonight – usual place." The girl points her thumb towards the back door, and Taylor nods, dumbstruck.

A fight? Ryan is having a fight? Has she fallen down a rabbit hole?

She downs her beer in one long swallow – desperate times require desperate measures – and stifles a burp. She may dress like a slut but old habits die hard. Making her way to the back of the bar, she notices that she isn't the only one – there's a steady, if relatively discreet, stream of customers – mainly men – who are slipping out the back.

She follows a couple down a hallway, to a door marked "Employees only", where a hairy man in a leather coat gives her the once-over, his gaze lingering on her breasts, and lets her through.

Into some fresh circle of hell that she never imagined existed.

Dear God, she thought she was streetwise and knew the ways of the world, but at times like these, Taylor realizes quite how sheltered her upbringing has been. Because nothing has prepared her for the sight of a steel cage in the middle of the vast stock room, surrounded by sweaty, disheveled men, with maybe a handful of scary-looking women, waving cash and screaming at the bare-knuckle fight going on in the cage.

The cage where Ryan is trading punches with some evil-looking bald hard man who has at least five inches and a hundred pounds on him. And they're serious punches – almost every hit draws blood, and by the looks of it Ryan is getting the worst of it. It's such a shocking sight Taylor has to dig her nails into her palms to stop herself from running into the cage. Every nerve in her body is screaming at her to intervene, to do something to stop this carnage, but she's frozen to the spot.

Somewhere in there, to her shame, there's also a powerful surge of hormones at the sight of a half-naked, sweaty and bleeding Ryan in full attack mode, and her nipples peak despite herself, the hardwiring bypassing the higher brain's distress. Taylor bites her lip, hard, but it doesn't stop the melting feeling between her legs, the knowledge that despite her sophisticated manners and her expensive private education, she's still a slave to the biological imperative, that she can be relied on to react instantly to displays of alpha male behavior.

She's wound as taut as a bowstring, and almost screams when Ryan collapses under the onslaught and falls to the ground, flat on his back, blood dripping from a gash above his eye. And then she catches the look of relief on his face, and his smile. Christ, it’s the smile of a man who's finally reached some kind of peace, through the most brutal and primitive of means, and it causes a shudder to run through her.

In that instant, Taylor gets it. The whole working in a dingy bar, fucking randoms, no talking to old friends, let alone Cohens, and not thinking or planning life beyond the next week, because frankly he doesn't give a shit whether he lives past Sunday. Ryan's just hanging on, a fingertip away from oblivion, ticking over, pretending.

Numb.

She watches him get back to his feet, slow and careful, pick up his stuff, throw a T-shirt around his shoulders, step out of the cage. While he talks to a scruffy guy in a leather jacket who's handing him money – Taylor can't help but notice Ryan waving it away – she moves closer to him, seeking his eyes. He looks glazed, unfocused, but he does notice her presence and his jaw tightens. At least he's not indifferent.

"So that's where you get these fetching bruises, Ryan. Nice. Do the Cohens know about this?"

"No." His voice is even lower and rougher than earlier, his red-rimmed eyes hard as flint. "And they're not going to."

"I didn't mean it like that."

"Good."

He makes as if to walk past her and on impulse Taylor raises a hand to his temple, reaching for the cut with her fingertips, and the gesture stops him in his tracks.

"Don't," he says.

"Why not? You need someone to take care of this. I'm sure you can do fine on your own – but I was a Girl Scout – merit badge in first aid and everything. You're so knocked out already, you probably won't bother and you’ll regret it tomorrow."

It's a gamble, but it works, Ryan evidently too bruised and battered – too fucked-up – to resist her now. So she follows him down the hall and into a dimly-lit storage room with a metal bunk bed and a utilitarian laundry sink. Apparently, this is where he's spent the last few months in an existence so dismal there's hardly a trace of his presence there.

There's nothing on the walls, and the bed is made with a frayed comforter pulled tight at the corners. The only hint that there’s someone living here at all are a couple of toiletries on a shelf and a copy of Cormac McCarthy's _Blood Meridian_ on a stool. The place is stuffy and airless, as grim a retreat as can be – a perfect match for the Ryan she just saw getting his ass kicked and relishing it.

He walks in ahead of her, sits heavily on the bed and lets his head drop into his hands. His face is a Godawful mess – one eye cut and swollen, bruises all over, and blood oozing from several abrasions. His knuckles are bleeding.

The sink is grimy, but there's soap, and some sort of generic antiseptic in a bottle, as well as tissues, gauze and cotton balls – evidently, Ryan's used to this routine. Taylor washes her hands carefully before kneeling down in front of him with the bottle in one hand and a wad of cotton and tissue in the other.

"Come on, let me see your face," she coaxes.

She's trying not to look at the rest of his body right now, even though she's a few inches from his bare, sweaty chest, and Ryan's even buffer than he was last time they slept together, his muscles pumped from the fight, not an ounce of spare flesh on him.

He turns his head toward her, hands down in his lap, and doesn't say a word while she gingerly mops up the blood, trying to clean the cut by his eyebrow without irritating it too much. From there, she moves down his face, slowly dabbing antiseptic on all the fresh-looking grazes. Her fingers skim over his skin, and because he's so quiet Taylor focuses on his breathing, taking her cues from the small hitches in his breath, keeping her touch light.

There are bruises and traces of blood and dirt on his chest, highlighting the well-defined muscles; and her breath quickens as she rubs the smears away. To Taylor's surprise, it's not just her – Ryan tenses up when her hand brushes his nipple accidentally. There's a sexual charge here, enough to make her clench inside and wonder whether she should pick up on it.

Finally Taylor turns to his hands, unwrapping the strips of gauze from around the swollen knuckles, examining each cut, dealing with them as best she can. Although it's got to hurt, Ryan remains silent, lets her do what she wants. Maybe he does trust her after all. She wishes this could last, but she expects it's just the moment – and the moment is coming to an end about now.

"Okay – this is all I can do. Are you sure you don't want to see a doctor?"

He shakes his head.

"I'll be fine. Thanks."

Maybe it's the heat, or the after-effects of the hormones triggered by the fight, or just the way he smells of fresh sweat, blood and testosterone, but Taylor feels an irresistible urge to kiss him as she gets up from her knees. It may have been months, but the second she saw him she felt desire tugging at her. There is only so much a girl can resist, and the added vulnerability and pain make it damn near impossible. So she leans into him, one hand either side of his body on the iron frame, and their mouths touch. Ryan flinches, but thankfully responds, his tongue hesitant on her lips at first, then bolder, until they are kissing hard and deep.

There's pent-up frustration and despair and long-denied desire in their frenzied kiss, in her hands sliding back up his body, in his fingers as they grip her shoulders, digging into the soft flesh.

Taylor wants to offer herself up as an alternative – comfort if not oblivion – but she's painfully aware that it's both give and take. She needs this as much as he does, desperate for the touch of another human being, the validation of external contact, the sweet release of orgasm. Maybe she's not as keen to blot out the past, but she doesn't want to dwell on it, either.

Ryan's hands are already under her tight top, teasing her nipples through the lace of her bra. He rolls one between thumb and forefinger, none too gently, and the sharp spike of pleasure makes her moan in his mouth. Holy Mother of God, how she missed his touch. Please, oh please, let it be real this time, and not another fantasy from which she'll wake up any minute now, bitter with disappointment and loss.

One hand slips behind her back and pulls her into his chest and she tumbles forward, both of them collapsing onto the mattress. She ends up splayed across him, her groin pressed to his, the evidence of his arousal hard against her pulsating clit – at which point Taylor _completely_ loses control of a situation that has already robbed her of coherent thought, not to mention speech.

There's something frantic about their grappling, mouths fused and hands pulling away at clothing, pelvises rocking against each other through layers of jeans and underwear, as they roll around the bed in a haze of lust.

"We can't… Oh man, this is wrong," Ryan pants, and Taylor could hit him.

Trust him to pick this moment for his moral scruples to flourish. Fuck him – she doesn't care. Now is _not_ the time to do the decent thing. Not that it ever was – screw this. She _needs_ him. Just as well she's breached his fly.

"Can we discuss that later?" she breathes urgently, her hand wrapping itself around his twitching cock, oh, the feel of it, hard and velvet soft to the touch…

"Taylor, this isn't…" But he doesn't sound as convinced all of a sudden.

"Shut up, Ryan", she mouths at him, tightening her grip, and he moans and thrusts into her hand, hips jerking despite himself. She's so insanely turned on, because oh hell, it's _Ryan_ , and it's been so damn _long_ , so she slips her other hand into her pants and circles her own slick clit rapidly, in time with the strokes of his cock. Ryan's eyes are closed now, his body limp on the bed except his hips, his hard cock, moving with her hand – the rhythm hypnotizing. Taylor is whimpering in the back of her throat, she's so fucking _into_ this. Her orgasm is building up inexorably, the tide of pleasure creeping higher and higher, on the verge of swamping her.

"Oh fuck," she says, and Ryan opens his eyes and stares at her, at her flushed, disheveled face, her fingers frantic against herself, and obviously it’s enough for him because he's coming in her hand, silently. His dick is pulsing between her fingers, a spatter of come glistening up her wrist, and this in turn sets her off. As she opens her mouth to cry out he throws up one hand, muffling her screams, and she grinds down on his knee, shaking in the grip of a powerful and utterly _exposed_ orgasm.

"Holy fuck," Ryan says when she's subsided and is resting her head on his chest – just for a few minutes, while she recovers her breath, her composure, her ability to speak in whole sentences. "You looked fucking unbelievable, Taylor..."

She wants to laugh, because, really? This whole _thing_ is unbelievable. Ryan tending a seedy bar, living in some fucking storage-room dump; Ryan bare-knuckle fighting in a _cage_ ; Ryan letting her clean his wounds after all the drama and the secrecy… honestly, the sex is the most believable part of the night. Or the least bizarre, whatever. At any rate, it's something they've done before and the familiarity makes a nice change.

But Taylor won’t let herself forget that their track record is pretty disastrous, filled with rejection and mismatched expectations and being in the wrong place at the wrong time. She is _not_ getting embroiled in another mess like the last one. Which clearly means she needs to leave swiftly, before this whole situation gets murky and heavy with meaning and consequences.

Luckily, she doesn't need to do much – just zip up her pants and straighten her bra, smooth her hair, get her smile back on. Maybe wipe her wrist unobtrusively on the bedspread.

"I'll see you around, okay?" she says, as breezily as she can manage in the circumstances.

"Hang on," he croaks, still flat out on the bed.

Taylor shakes her head as she gets up. No way. Besides, she recognizes that voice – it's the guy on the verge of passing out at the party because of too much booze or sex or violence, or maybe all three.

"Not this time," she says, quiet, and then she just opens the door and walks out, perched on her sexy heels, the wobble in her knees under control until she makes it out of the bar and into her car. It takes her a good five minutes of deep breathing and focusing on the steering wheel before she can trust herself to drive off.

Ryan has no idea how this whole thing happened, how he ended up half naked on his own bed after one of the worst thrashings of his short fighting career; with his dick still out and his balls drained by the careful ministrations of Taylor Townsend. All he knows is that it was the most powerful experience he's been through in a few months, and that’s – unsettling.  
  
Usually, after a beating like the one he just experienced, he can count on the pain and shock to cushion him from the reality of his life for at least a day or two, more if he's lucky and drinks enough make sure he stays numb. And then _she_ had to turn up and make it all about awareness and being alive and fucking _connecting_ with someone else, for the first time in forever. 

This is _so_ wrong. 

He waits for the feelings to go away again, but the problem is, he can't get it – get _her_ – out of his head. For some reason, she keeps haunting him. 

***************************************************

_Part 2:Redemption_

Ryan wakes up in the middle of the night with her face imprinted on his retinas, the sound of her voice echoing in her ears; the memory of her body in mid-spasm engraved on his brain. It’s not just about their last encounter – his mind is filling with choice memories from their earlier trysts, too; the heat of her cunt, the agility of her tongue, the nimbleness of her fingers. All of Taylor's considerable skills are being reviewed, at leisure, by his uncooperative mind, and he finds himself masturbating almost compulsively – his dick eager to join into the rebellion – until he starts wondering whether he should be doing something about it. Something more than jerking off, that is.

He hasn't paid that much attention to _anything_ – let alone any _one_ – in his life since it all fell apart after the crash. And this new sexual obsession with Taylor feels so weird he has no idea how to deal with it. Except, of course, ignore it, but his dick doesn't seem inclined to let him do that. 

It lasts a week or so, until one morning Julie calls him way too early, when he's still groggy from the late night and the beers he's been sucking down toward the end of his shift. She sounds nervous and speaks too fast into the phone, and he barely catches the significance of what she’s saying to him. It's easy enough, though – only three words: "They got him ".

No need to ask who _they_ are. There is only one _him_ that Ryan gives a fuck about. Later that morning, Sandy also calls, and Ryan does his best to sound pleased at the news.

The thing is, he's relieved, but he’s also fucking angry because that means he's never going to get closure with the bastard. Probably for the best, his reasonable brain argues; but he not so secretly wishes he'd had a chance to really hurt Volchok all the same. Maybe even kill him, if it wasn't such a stupid way of ensuring his own life was fucked up for good. 

 

What he didn't expect was that he'd lose the ability to sleep in the days following the news. Maybe it's just a coincidence, but it’s making him feel weird. The constant exhaustion adds a surreal edge to his already strange day-to-day existence . 

Volchok’s capture is big news in Newport – even though it’s been months since Marissa’s death – and he’s not too surprised that Taylor calls him that Sunday evening. Ryan actually smiles when he sees her number showing on his cell display. 

"Tell me you're not working tonight?" she says, trying not to sound excited but failing, which makes him feel irrationally pleased with himself. 

"I'm not." 

"Well can I convince you to leave your hardcore den and come out for a drink with me? Maybe in Newport? I was kind of hoping that you might want to toast Volchok’s arrest.” 

If he didn't know better, he'd buy the detached, laid back tone, and the way she keeps the bullshit patter going. But it’s Taylor, and he realizes he knows more about her than he thought, or maybe he’s just remembering stuff he’s spent the past five months burying very deep indeed. 

So instead of being annoyed with her because she wants to drag him back to Newport, he agrees to meet her at some slightly down-market place where the chances of running into any Cohens, young or old, are slight.

“I didn’t think you’d even _know_ the place,” he tells her when she quickly says yes, and she laughs.

“I try not to be predictable,” she replies, flirtatious, and his pulse quickens. It’s been a while since he’s felt anything approaching anticipation. 

“As long as you promise this isn’t a set-up with Seth.” 

“Don’t worry. I haven’t told the Cohens anything. I’d just like to see you.”

Long story short, he’s been nursing his beer for ten minutes in a cracked vinyl booth when she walks in, looking – well, stunning, really. It’s funny how somewhere along the way, Taylor, for him at least, has morphed from being an irritating Newpsie in training into the sex goddess he sees before him. Her personality expands like an invisibility cloak around her, although he thinks that recently she’s been freeing herself from that cocoon. 

Maybe it’s the French influence, but she looks hotter than ever, in a short pleated skirt that positively calls for Ryan’s hand to slip under it. 

Two beers later, it does. 

Before that, they fit in a whole conversation about his sleeping habits, because Taylor insists that she is an excellent sleep therapist.

“Seriously, Ryan, I bet I can figure out why you don’t sleep. When did it start?”

“Last week.”

“Last week when Volchok got arrested, maybe?” She arches an eyebrow.

He snorts into his drink. 

“No shit, Sherlock.”

“Well it’s obvious. You feel you’ve lost your drive, your focus, your reason to wake up every day, so of course you can’t go to sleep,” she says smugly.

“Excuse me?”

“Tell me you didn’t go to bed every night with visions of catching up with him and beating him to death or something?” 

Her eyes are challenging. 

“I think you feel you’ve had your vengeance stolen from you, and you’re frustrated and angry. And lost.” 

He blinks a couple of times and shakes his head. There’s something uncanny about Taylor’s ability to put into words thoughts he hasn’t quite finished articulating in his mind. 

“Well?”

“Yes, okay. You might be onto something there… So what do you think I should do, Doctor Townsend?” 

She laughs, again, and he joins in, marveling at how easily they’ve fallen back into flirty banter. There’s lots of looks and smiles and contact – her hand on his arm, on his shoulder; his knee against hers. 

“Well, it’s your choice really – I have this tea this Chinese herbalist gave me, which is good. Or we could start with something gentler like aromatherapy – there’s this very pure lavender oil which is _great_ for helping you sleep. Or maybe you’d like to try some Korean massage I picked up – I am pretty good at massages…” Her voice trails off but there’s an unmistakable offer there. Enough to make him take action. 

“Of course, if you want to come and administer treatment, you’re welcome,” he says slyly. “I _did_ sleep very well the other night.” 

That’s when he makes contact with her leg, his hand light, barely touching. 

Although she gives a start, there’s no effort to stop him. On the contrary, Ryan notices as he lets his hand roam upwards, Taylor’s thighs part slightly under the table. 

The bar is pretty empty, and they’re out of the line of sight of the barman. In any other circumstances Ryan would run a mile, because he really isn’t one for public sex, but he’s insanely horny, and he really feels like he owes her one from the other night. He’s never been one to leave a girl wanting – or so he likes to think. Even if they prove that they are perfectly able to look after themselves.

The satiny feel of her inner thigh under his fingers is enough to make his cock swell inside his jeans. He’s so close to her clit, and he can feel her fighting the urge to push her crotch forward into his hand. Man, that’s what he loves about Taylor – she really wants it, she’s not ashamed of it, and she gives as good as she gets. Or hopefully, tonight, she’ll get as good as she gave. 

With his free hand, Ryan raises his bottle to his lips. He keeps his eyes on Taylor’s and as the rim of the bottle makes contact with his mouth, the very tip of his fingers brush against her panties, and she bucks against his hand.

“Oh, Ryan,” she breathes out, her cheeks flushed, and all he can think is how adorable and hot she looks right now, with her bottom lip sucked in and that look of surrender on her face. He takes a couple of long swallows from the bottle, strokes her through the fragile lace barrier. 

“You’re crazy,” she says in that same breathy tone, but she makes absolutely no move to get away from him. He hooks a finger around the edge of her panties, touches hot wet flesh, the tip of his middle finger just caressing her, and she makes a little strangled noise in her throat and reaches for her glass to muffle it.

“Too much?” he asks quietly, all the while inching towards her clit, and she shakes her head, blushing. 

Attagirl. He hasn’t been with someone this much fun to fool around with for… Christ, for longer than he can remember. The women he’s bedded since the accident – well, to be honest, it’s not like he was all there, even if it was a pleasant way to spend an hour or two with his mind (and body) on something else. But this – well, Taylor’s hooked him. This was supposed to be about her, and yet his whole body is yearning for her touch, and his dick is rock hard in his pants.

The fingers of his left hand are clasping the beer bottle on the table like his life depends on it while his other hand reaches her clit and starts massaging it slowly. Taylor’s closed her eyes and is rocking almost imperceptibly with his movements. When his thumb takes residence on her clit and two of his fingers dip into her – entering her with ease – her breathing turns ragged, every breath she takes accompanied with the faintest of whimpers. It’s the hottest sound that Ryan has ever heard, and the knowledge that as she does this she teeters on the brink of orgasm makes it even hotter. 

There’s a perverse streak in him that wants her to open her eyes, to look at him, to force herself to pretend everything’s normal, even as he hooks his fingers insider her and makes her shudder. 

“Look at me when you come,” he tells her, pressing harder against her G-spot, forcing the kind of moan from her throat that makes him want to push her onto her back and fuck her right here. 

Steady.

Obediently, Taylor opens her eyes – swimming with arousal, pupils huge, and she’s staring straight at Ryan. “Oh,” she says, quietly, under her breath. “Oh! Yes, yes, yes…” her voice so low he can barely hear her. 

If the barman walks by to collect glasses, they’re busted, because no one could see Taylor and not notice she’s just about to come, never mind the hands under the table, but Ryan is past caring. This is killing his arm – they’re sitting too close to each other and he’s getting a cramp – but it’s worth the pain to watch her take a deep breath and then bite her lip fiercely in an effort to stay silent as the orgasm finally overcomes her, her cunt throbbing against Ryan’s fingers, her whole body rigid. She looks absolutely beautiful in that instant, and he reaches over and kisses her, a long passionate kiss that has the added advantage of muffling her moans. 

His fingers are warm and slick when he finally lets go of her, and rather than wipe them on his jeans, he sucks them clean, the musky smell and taste adding to his already unbearable arousal, and grins at Taylor. Her head is resting against the wall, and there’s a glassy-eyed quality to her face that makes him feel pretty smug. 

“Well I guess _I’ll_ be sleeping soundly tonight,” she says, and they both start laughing. There’s something about her that always manages to lift his mood. 

“Yeah? I wish I could say the same,” he drawls, shifting in his seat, his erection too prominent for comfort. 

She cocks an eyebrow at him and he can practically read her dirty little mind. Especially when she pokes her pink tongue out and he seriously wonders for a moment whether the oblivious bartender would really notice Taylor kneeling under the table. Fortunately, he doesn’t have to test that scenario, because she gets up and leans over him, flashing a nice expanse of cleavage.

“Meet me in the ladies’ room in two minutes,” she whispers. 

Her skirt swishes past him and he finds himself hypnotized by her heart-shaped ass as he tracks her through the bar. His heart is thumping with anticipation and excitement, increased by the knowledge that under that skirt, her clit is still swollen and her thighs are still wet with her own come. 

Two minutes later – to the second – Ryan gets up and follows Taylor, thanking his lucky stars that the restrooms are at the end of a deserted hallway and no one can see him slip inside. She grabs him by the arm as he walks in and drags him into a shabby cubicle – cleaner than he’d expect, but then, women’s restrooms always are, in his experience. 

“We don’t have much time,” Taylor murmurs, pressing herself against him. The door feels cool against his back, and as long as her hand keeps sliding up his pant leg, he’s fine with being rushed. He thrusts against her hip, seeking pressure and blessed relief, and groans with pleasure when her fingers unbutton his pants and slip in, closing around his engorged cock. Taylor’s lips are on his, and she’s sucking on this tongue while thumbing his weeping head, and is he didn’t know how fantastic her blowjobs are he’d be sorely tempted to let go right now. 

Evidently, she can sense it, because he feels her grinning against his mouth. Her kisses become lighter, and move to the side of his mouth, his neck, his throat, and then she slowly squats in front of his extremely erect cock. The sight of her at his feet – fuck, it’s an eternal male fantasy – and Taylor’s playing it for all it’s worth, holding him in one hand while looking up at him, eyes mischievous, licking her lips in a last-minute tease before parting them and slowly taking his cock in, inch by inch.

“Oh God,” he moans, and it’s sweet torture as Taylor maintains a very slow pace, licking and sucking her way down his shaft and pulling back, one hand gently caressing his balls while the nails of the other dig into his buttock, drawing him in closer. Her cheeks are hollowed as she sucks him in, and the sight of her lips stretched around his cock is exactly like the detailed recollections his fevered brain has been providing him recently. 

She’s obviously decided to speed things up, so after a few more languorous swipes of his hypersensitive head she takes him all the way in, until she’s swallowing around him and sucking with renewed energy. Both hands are now gripping his ass and holding him and the feeling is just astounding. 

Fists balled at the side of his hips to stop himself grabbing her hair, Ryan feels the last vestiges of his willpower dissolving under the onslaught, and the start of a powerful orgasm tingling in his balls. So powerful that he crams one fist into his mouth in an effort not to howl as his cock erupts, pumping what feels like gallons of come into Taylor’s throat, and his knees simultaneously decide to quit. 

“How… oh man… I can’t… fuck, Taylor,” he babbles, bracing against the door to stop himself from falling to the ground on top of her. She’s already getting back to her feet, wincing a little as she stands – the position can’t have been all that comfortable –and smoothing her skirt. 

“Yes, Ryan?” she says, tilting her head sideways. 

“You really are something else,” he says weakly. “Really.”

She bursts into a delighted giggle, and he’s reminded of quite how sparkling her eyes are when she’s smiling. 

“You’re such a sweetie. Thanks!”

Things have stabilized somewhat and Ryan’s knees seem to be in working order again – clearly it was just a very temporary effect of the Taylor Townsend Restroom Special. He carefully tucks himself back into his pants, and reaches one hand out to grab hers. He’s still feeling a little woozy, but better – happier – than he has in ages. 

“Listen – I think we should do this more often.” 

He pauses. 

“Actually, that didn’t come out right.”

“Really? You mean you _don’t_ want anymore blowjobs?” 

She’s smirking. But probably covering up, he reminds himself, because he hasn’t forgotten what happened last time they hooked up in Newport.

“No! I mean, yes, I do, but not just….” He sighs, tries again. “I think I’d like to see you around.” 

“Ryan Atwood, are you asking me out?” There’s a look of genuine puzzlement on her face. 

Hell, he doesn’t know what he’s doing either. But the couple of times he’s seen her recently, he’s felt better. And the sex – he hasn’t felt as connected to another human being in months, and that’s got to be a sign. Maybe it’s time he climbed out of the hole he’s dug himself into since graduation night.

“I… I guess. Well, I don’t know what I can offer, really. I’m fucked up and my life – well, you’ve seen what a mess it is but…”

“Hey,” she says gently, and she gives his hand a little squeeze. “Let’s get out of here and I’ll buy you another beer and we can talk some more, okay?”

Back at the table, it’s like the sex relaxed him enough to allow him to open up, because for the first time since the accident, Ryan is capable of talking about himself. Not that he’s running off at the mouth, but compared to his usual silence, it’s a strange feeling, And a relief. 

“I’ve been living… in denial, I guess. Not thinking about what happens next, not interacting with anyone except the assholes I fight and the people at the bar and, you know, sometimes a girl or two but…” He looks sideways at Taylor, who’s listening attentively opposite him. She deliberately chose to sit further away when she returned to the table to give him space, he thinks, or maybe to see him better. “Nothing like this, okay? I mean, sex with you is – well, it’s great, but it’s not just that.”

He takes a deep breath and gulps down some more beer. 

“Taylor, I haven’t really given a fuck about anyone since that day. Well, apart from Volchok, okay. And sure, I know the Cohens have been trying to get in touch, and Seth comes by now and then, but all I can think is that they’re better off without me messing up their lives, so there’s no point in thinking about them. Or that’s what I thought. And now, maybe I’m not so sure.”

Taylor’s looking straight at him, perfectly still, the image of a good listener, but he can see her start shaking her head. 

“What, you think I’m being an ass?”

“No – not at all – I just… I wish you could see how much they miss you, how they want you back.” She pauses and smiles faintly. “How, without you, the family isn’t whole.” 

Family. Ryan feels his throat constricting. 

“Look, you’ve got to understand. I can’t – I haven’t let myself… I haven’t…” 

Oh Christ, his voice is breaking, fuck. She leans across the table and grabs his arm. 

“Oh, I do, Ryan. I do. You’ve pushed all your feelings away and buried them because you were so devastated by Marissa’s death, and so enraged at Volchok, and you’ve been trying to keep everything under wraps. You’re so scared of what you’ll find if you let those emotions out that you can’t afford to have any feelings. But Ryan – you’re just running away, avoiding having to deal with reality. And you strategy involves swapping it for an even grittier and more unpleasant version, but one in which you have no emotional investment.”

Ryan narrows his eyes at her. “Have you been studying psychology on the sly or is this all _Cosmo_ psychobabble?” 

To tell the truth, he’s a little scared by how accurate she is.

“Does it matter? Tell me I’m wrong.”

Defeated, he shakes his head. 

“Okay. So obviously, something is happening here – because you weren’t talking last time, and I’m guessing Volchok has something to do with it.”

“So do you.” The blush those words triggers on her cheeks makes him smile. 

“Why thank you, Ryan. But come on, what are you thinking? Don’t you maybe want to leave this mess – that dump you’re living in – and try, you know… maybe going back home?”

He closes his eyes. Partly so as not to see her hopeful look, partly because he doesn’t really know what to answer. Yes, of course he wants to go home; but home is Newport, and Newport with the absence of Marissa Cooper and with all the Cohens pressed solicitously around him – asking how he is, trying to fix him – just feels too overwhelming. On the other hand – he doesn’t think he’ll be able to survive much longer at the bar without turning into a permanent wreck. 

“Maybe. I don’t know. Maybe. Don’t you think the Cohens might be pissed off with me after all this time? They might not want…” he trails off. He’s half joking, but he’s spent so much time living alone with his paranoid thoughts that there’s a tiny amount of doubt.

“Are you kidding? Oh, Ryan, they would be ecstatic. Seth has been moping ever since you left – it didn’t help when Summer went off too, of course – but I can promise you that nothing would make them happier.” She stops. “They’ve missed you so much,” she adds softly. 

And that makes him feel so guilty all of a sudden that he knows he has to do something about it. 

“Okay.” He stands up, rubs the back of his neck. “Listen, Taylor, I think I ought to call them. Like, now, before I lose my nerve.”

She nods eagerly. “Do you want me to wait?” 

“Yeah, sure. I mean, yes, thanks. Just so I don’t weasel out.” 

Pulling his phone out of his pocket, he flashes her a quick smile and walks out towards the door.

***********************

When Ryan returns twenty minutes later, Taylor can see he’s been crying. Not the red nose, streaming eyes and wracking sobs kind of crying she can be distressingly prone to (less so these days, thank God) but nonetheless there are tell-tale pink rims around his eyes.

“So?”

“You were right.” 

He sounds absolutely exhausted. 

“Kirsten cried. I said I’d come for dinner later this week – like Wednesday, maybe – give my boss a couple of days to replace me, and move back in with them. I also said you’d come to dinner with me.”

Taylor’s heart skips a beat. Is he being serious? 

“What?” she squeaks. 

“Yeah, well I need something to deflect the attention off me and I figured you’d be great at keeping them entertained…” He smiles, a real smile that goes all the way to his eyes, and Taylor wants to whoop for joy.

Her phone buzzes in her pocket. It’s Seth. 

She debates briefly whether to answer, then lets it go to voicemail. Five seconds later, it buzzes again.

“Seth?” 

Ryan looks amused. 

She shrugs and answers. 

“Hello, Seth. I see you won’t take no for an answer.”

“Are you with him?” 

Typical Seth. No preamble, nothing – just jump straight into it. 

“If this is an interrogation, I’m hanging up, I warn you.” 

“Okay – but you have to give me the lowdown. It’s because Volchok got caught, right? And what’s up with the two of you – are you dating or something?” 

Oh, Lord. He’s almost worse than she is, she thinks. She hopes. 

“Goodbye, Seth. See you Wednesday.” 

She snaps her phone shut and turns to Ryan. The thing is, she has no idea how to answer Seth. Probably “or something”, knowing Ryan. Whatever – it still makes her heart sing. 

“See?” he says, smirking. “That’s why I want you to run interference on Wednesday. Because however bad you think he is with you, he’s ten times worse with me.”

“He means well,” she says, almost under her breath, because she recognizes that pattern of behavior. 

So does Ryan, and he leans forward, eyes crinkly. 

“Hey – unlike him, you’re capable of not talking about yourself at least once every ten minutes. And you’re a good listener.”

Yeah. Still, not perfect yet, sorry Mom.

Ryan kisses Taylor in the parking lot, against the side of his Jeep, one hand on either side of her, his mouth hot and dirty on hers until she wishes they were headed home together. She can feel herself getting wetter by the second, her crotch aching for his touch. He pulls away just before it gets past the point of no return, pressing his hard-on against her one last time.

On the drive back she fantasizes about his cock, his mouth – his fingers – , and starts touching herself whenever she’s stopped at a light, until a guy in a Hummer pulls up next to her just by a brightly lit convenience store and leers at her, tongue lolling. She takes off at top speed the moment the light turns green, and doesn’t risk anything else until she’s home. She masturbates twice to orgasm, spread-eagled on her bed, three fingers in her pussy, slamming up and inwards, and it’s only because sleep overcomes her that she doesn’t do it a third time. 

She sleeps _extremely_ soundly after that.

***********************

Wednesday is awkward, at first. Ryan comes by to pick her up – Taylor’s waiting in the driveway, anxious to avoid a confrontation with the mom from hell, who’s already bitched about her outfit _and_ her hair, and it’s not even six.

She’s nervous, but one look at him and her focus shifts. Ryan is tense as anything, his jaw working as he drives through early evening traffic. The bruises have faded, but there are no fresh scars on his face and he’s wearing a blue button-down shirt and black jeans. He’s so hot she could do him then and there, peel his pants open and go down on him without a second thought. 

Somehow, she doesn’t think that would be a good idea on the way to the Cohens’, although it probably would relax him. Scratch this, it would relax the both of them. Because for all her concern for Ryan, Taylor is also extremely conscious that this is the first time the two of them are appearing as a couple in front of anyone else. And even if their status is left deliberately vague, it’s definitely of the dating persuasion rather than the “just good friends” one. Which is enough to send her heart into palpitations.

The look on Sandy’s face when he opens the door brings tears to her eyes. He gives Ryan a brief one-arm hug, but keeps his hand on his shoulder as he shepherds him into the house, his other hand on Taylor’s arm, giving her a quick squeeze. _Thank you._

Kirsten is standing by the table, gripping the back of a chair so hard her knuckles are white, and Seth is by her, sprawled back in his seat, fidgeting. Abruptly, Taylor is reminded that the whole family has been in suspended animation for the past five months – pretending to get on with life, but not really achieving anything. 

She hopes Ryan can handle the attention, because right now she’s not deflecting any of it – three pairs of eyes are staring at him, and the emotional tension in the room is at tipping point. He stands rigidly, his face blank, giving every indication of having retreated all the way back into his shell. Taylor takes a deep breath. If he doesn’t snap out of it, she’s going to have to do something. The Cohens are frozen or something – it’s as if she’d walked into the Sleeping Beauty’s castle, the only moving being in the whole place. 

Luckily Kirsten has manages to break the spell and she lets go of the chair and walks forward, hesitantly. 

“Thank you, Ryan,” she says, and her voice is scratchy. She clears her throat. “And thank you too, Taylor, for coming tonight.” 

Ryan still hasn’t moved but the set of his shoulders softens slightly. Or so Taylor likes to imagine. When Kirsten stretches out a hand toward him, her fingers landing on his shoulder, his face comes alive again. 

“Kirsten,” he says, and then Taylor looks away, because he’s obviously fighting to keep his emotions in check and she doesn’t want to intrude. 

Next thing she knows they’re all in each other’s arms and then Sandy is showing her to the table with a broad grin. Seth pats her arm awkwardly and waves at the food, but they both know eating’s the last thing on their mind right now.

Later, when Kirsten has stopped tearing up, and all the guys have stopped trying to pretend they have something in their eye, or need to cough, or blow their noses, Taylor comes into her own and takes charge of the conversation. She can chat with the best of them, fill dead air at the table with practiced ease, keep the flak away from Ryan, who’s digging into the food, grateful for the diversion. There will be plenty of time for proper talk in days to come, when Ryan moves back in. 

They leave early – Ryan pleads exhaustion, and his eyes speak for him. Taylor’s caught the Cohens glancing at each other now and then, and remembers how she felt the first time she saw his battered face. They need time to process this, as does he. 

Right now, though, he’s hers.

When Ryan pulls over in her drive, Taylor’s relieved to see the lights off – Mom’s out, as expected, and unlikely to return early since she’s with one of her boytoys. Personally, Taylor couldn’t care less who her mother dates, but she just wishes she were more discreet about it. Then again, half the wealthy divorced Newpsies are just as conspicuous in their preference for fresh meat, so it’s not like there’s anyone left to be shocked. 

Anyhow – this isn’t about her mom. She turns to Ryan, who’s been silent all the way from the Cohens, deep in thought, and places a hand on his thigh. 

“Do you want to come in for a coffee or something?” She takes a deliberately flirtatious tone and lets the pads of her fingers run lightly along his leg. “Although, coffee does make you tense, and you look like you might need … to relax a little.” 

He smiles, raising her hopes. 

“Mom’s out?”

“As if I’d spring her on you without warning, Ryan. Especially after tonight.” 

“Thanks for… you know…” He pauses, chews on his lip. “Thanks for helping me to do this. To… reconnect. I was kinda lost there, for a little while.”

She can feel tears pricking at the corners of her own eyes, now, and her heart swells with emotion and a strange kind of pride. _Her_. It took _her_ to get Ryan to snap out of his funk. And no matter what happens next, she’ll always have this. 

Next thing she knows, he’s leaning across the front seat and kissing her. She’s still buckled up and it’s all a little awkward with the steering wheel and the brake, but his tongue in her mouth feels so right. The atmosphere in the car goes from tender to passionate in record time, and Taylor realizes that unless they move out _right now_ , they’ll be fucking on the back seat of the Jeep. Which, considering her bed is only a few yards and a flight of steps away, seems like a stupid idea. 

“Bed?” she manages to squeak between two kisses. 

Cue frantic seatbelt fumbling and an uncoordinated stagger out of the car while she searches her bag for her front door key, distracted by Ryan’s hands on her hips, her waist, her breasts. 

“Hurry,” he hisses in her ear, adding to her clumsiness. 

From the front door it’s another crazy rush up the stairs to her bed, Ryan chasing after her until they’re both through her door, which she slams and locks. He lies back against it, panting. 

“It’s been a while,” he says, looking around her bedroom. “Hasn’t changed much.”

“Except it’s better stocked than last time,” Taylor says primly. 

“Oh yeah? Hey, I brought supplies.” He digs a hand in the inside pocket of his jacket and brings out a handful of condoms, and they both burst out laughing.

“Ryan! That’s enough for a _week_!”

He flashes her a dirty grin. “Is that a challenge?”

It amazes her how Ryan can switch from withdrawn, angst-ridden and insecure to sexually confident, sleazy and alpha male in a matter of seconds, but he can. And although she knows something about the ego boost of mutual sexual attraction, she falls for it every time. 

Two hands land on her waist, around her hips, and pull her closer. He starts again, this time with light kisses over her eyes and forehead that become more sensual as they linger on her skin, his tongue flicking onto the tip of an ear, down the curve of her neck. 

She’s feeling deliciously woozy, swamped by a tide of sensations. Ryan’s hands are moving upwards, touching her breasts, thumbing her nipples through her silk blouse until they are hard and aching, slowly undoing her buttons and freeing each breast from their lacy cage. He lowers his head and takes each nipple in turn in his mouth, licking and sucking assiduously, and pleasure shoots straight to her groin, as if a thread connected the hard nubs to her clit, and she moans.

Lost in the moment, she barely feels her blouse slipping off her shoulders, her bra following suit, and Ryan’s skillful unfastening of her pants. When his hands run all the way down her legs with her thong and he finally lets go of her breasts, she realizes she’s naked.

He’s standing in front of her, fully clothed, eyes burning. “Just… please. Let me look at you.”

Taylor stands stock still, torn between extremely arousal and shame. Well, not really shame – after all they have slept together, she reasons – but the fact that she’s naked and he’s not adds an extra erotic frisson to the scene. 

“God, Taylor, you really are beautiful,” he says, his voice rough, as his eyes slowly scan her body, and it makes her feel like a million dollars. Even more so when Ryan enfolds her in his arms and starts kissing her again, his mouth roaming her body, leaving a trail of fire behind it that literally makes her go weak at the knees. She has to steady herself against the wall. 

There’s something about his kisses that Taylor can’t resist at all: it’s like a drug coursing through her veins. She staggers along with him as he pulls her toward the bed, lets herself drop on it with a sigh, and watches Ryan through half-closed eyes as he looms over her with a sexy grin. 

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” she says, and it comes out as a whisper. All the kissing has robbed her of breath and voice. His grin widens.

“You think?” His hand hovers over the buttons of his shirt. She nods, eager.

Ryan starts popping the buttons one by one, deliberately slow and almost teasing. Now there’s a surprise – Ryan Atwood can do striptease? The blue shirt opens onto a white wifebeater, and slips down toned shoulders and arms. Next the ‘beater is pulled overhead, revealing his chiseled and still slightly bruised chest, and Taylor wants to clap. Shirtless in his black jeans, he looks as though he’s stepped off the pages of a magazine. 

“You look pretty good yourself,” she murmurs from the bed. “You should give Playgirl a call…”

And she shuts up because Ryan is undoing his button fly, agonizingly slowly, and it’s patently obvious as she follows the trail of dark blonde hair down his stomach that he’s going commando. Maybe it’s a laundry crisis at the Bar of Doom and Despair, but she’s kind of hoping that it’s in anticipation of their date, especially when his erection springs out and she has to exert incredible willpower to stop her hands from grabbing it. She is trying to learn patience, so help her God.

For the second time tonight, time stands still – Ryan is now completely naked, and very erect, arms by his side as he looks down at her on the bed; and Taylor can’t bring herself to move. All she can think is how relaxed and natural he looks, and how gorgeous, too. They’re eyeing each other hungrily, and it feels intensely erotic and charged with anticipation. 

Just to up the game a little, Taylor lets a hand trail down her stomach, fingers light over her skin, until she reaches her aching clitoris, and allows herself the briefest of caresses. Then another, and another, and as she looks at Ryan he’s completely transfixed by the movement of her hand, which makes it infinitely more exciting.

“Oh, Jesus, Ryan,” she moans, her finger delving into her, and next thing she knows, he’s blanketing her with his body, his mouth on hers, his cock insistent against her abdomen. They grapple with each other on her bed, the build-up of the past couple of weeks finally given a chance to express itself fully. Which, bluntly, means Taylor is desperate for a fuck. 

And so is Ryan, apparently, because he stops sucking her neck for long enough to whisper “Condom time?” in her ear – to which she nods an emphatic yes – before diving back towards his jeans to extract some of the booty he flashed earlier. 

He’s shaking as he unrolls the thin latex sheath on his cock, kneeling between Taylor’s legs, and she’s watching him, lips parted and breath bated. There’s no thought of finesse or sensual caresses – there’ll be time for that later. 

Right now, she cants her hips up for him as he braces himself on his forearms and thrusts into her in one long push. The pure animal pleasure of it, the feel of his cock stretching her, filling that demanding void – it’s indescribable and so intense she cries out, a long drawn-out moan as she arches her back, willing him in deeper. 

He’s driving into her like a man possessed, his hips bucking into hers, and for the first time Taylor feels she understands what it means to be fucked through the mattress. It’s a sweaty, animalistic coupling, Ryan grunting into her ear while she moans rhythmically with every thrust, endorphins flooding through her veins. 

As much as this is about mutual desperate desire, the fact that Ryan has entirely let go of his usual restraint is telling, and even in mid-fuck, Taylor can sense that for him it’s about more than just sex – there’s a whole lot of demons being exorcised here. Which is why she isn’t surprised, or upset, when he lets out an almighty groan, stiffens over her and comes, throbbing into her, before she’s anywhere near completion. 

Of course, it _is_ Ryan, so as he collapses over her he kisses her jawline and mutters apologies. 

“Sorry, I’m sorry, I just…” 

“Shhh… It’s okay,” she says, stroking the back of his neck. 

“Give me a minute, okay?”

They lie there, limbs tangled and sweaty, Ryan’s weight crushing her – but in a good way, because it’s been a while. His heart is beating against her chest, and this post-coital embrace is making her feel grounded and serene in a way she hasn’t been for a _long_ time. Even if she’s still feeling horny, but she knows Ryan well enough to bet he won’t let that pass.

He’s still a little groggy when he pushes himself up over her and smiles, eyes mischievous.

“Thank you. You have no idea how much I needed that.”

“Oh, I think I do.” She smiles back.

“I think you might just be what the doctor ordered,” he says, and this time it’s not a smile, it’s definitely a smirk. “But I’m not quite finished.” With this, he slides down her body, nuzzling her on the way down, until he reaches her swollen clit, and attacks it with his eager mouth, lapping at it gently at first and then taking it between his lips and sucking it with a fervor that makes Taylor break into streams of gibberish.

Oh heavens above how did she ever think that Henri-Michel gave great head? Especially when Ryan starts fingering her and brings every nerve ending in her pelvis into play, twisting and pushing inside her, and next thing she knows she’s tipping over the edge and coming in a long shudder.

But he’s obviously decided this isn’t enough. 

He keeps his mouth on her, riding the spasms of her orgasm, and as soon as he can feel it ebbing away, he starts again, probing her with skilled fingers, teasing her G-spot, licking her throbbing clit. Taylor wriggles under the assault – it’s either too much or not enough, his tongue making her want more, and her overstimulated cunt begging for respite; until suddenly he hits exactly the right spot and she realizes she’s about to come again. 

Except that this time, instead of coming down from her climax, she seems to be surfing an unstoppable orgasmic wave, climbing higher and higher until she can’t bear it anymore and she howls her pleasure, a long inarticulate out of control cry ripped from her lungs as her whole body pulses in release.

Taylor has no idea how long this has been going on, but when she falls back onto the bed, head lolling back, she feels utterly spent. She lays there, muscles twitching, nerve ends fizzing, and somewhere through the fog of her mind she registers Ryan’s hands stroking her midriff gently. 

She prides herself on having a healthy sex drive and a sensual side she’s more than willing to explore, but _this_ was almost mystical in its intensity – if she were at all inclined that way, which she resolutely is not. But it’s certainly made her think that there’s some more exploring she needs to do with Ryan, because their chemistry is just… _whoa_. Which sounds like a good plan for the future, potentially a lot of fun, and – as she keeps reminding herself – a very useful exercise to help Ryan heal.

Suddenly, life in Newport looks like it might become a lot easier. And not just for Taylor.


End file.
